Page 9 of Bone Deep
I exhale sharply. “I better go get Beau from inside. It’s gonna take two of us to hold her back.”
Later—after I’ve gotten Beau out of the bar and physically wrapped an arm around Lexi while she tried to launch herself at Chance—I’m ready for this night to end.
Cars start pulling out one by one. Anthony leaves with Jen and Spencer. Beau wrestles Lexi into the passenger seat of their car. Chance disappears into the night.
I slide into my car and shut the door, sealing myself into silence. Dropping my head back against the leather on my headrest, I drag both hands down my face.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “What a night.”
My pulse is still buzzing.
Adrenaline? Residual anger about Chance, maybe?
No, that’s not what’s got me wound up.
It’s Spencer. Spence.
Deep and dangerous blue eyes. Hair and clothes that scream perfection. A sharp and fast tongue delivering snark with razor precision before retreating back inside a wittier-than-you smirk.
And those legs.
I groan softly.
Compact strength. The kind built to grip. To anchor.
Focus, Buterbaugh.
Spence…
I frown slightly. Did I catch his last name? Shit, I didn’t. How the hell did I not catch his last name? Jen said he’s an attorney at the firm she works at. So, he’s in the group’s orbit.
I’ll probably see him again.
No, Iwillsee that sexy, dapper, seriously intimidating man again.
The thought sends a chill through me. Dark and broody makes my pants tight. I could ask Jen for his number. Not tonight, obviously. Too desperate. Maybe in a few days. Casual text.Hey, what was your friend Spencer’s last name again? Can I have his number?
I could say I need legal advice I don’t want my agent to know about. Yeah. Because that won’t offend Jen. She’d bitch me out for not going to her first.
“Shit,” I mutter.
That won’t work.
Anthony. I’ll just ask Anthony. Simple. Clean. No weird subtext.Hey, what’s Spencer’s deal?
Totally normal. Totally straight. I huff a quiet laugh at my own bullshit.
Right. Because the way I was staring at him tonight? Real subtle, Butters. I frown at the fraud staring back at me in the rearview mirror.
America’s golden boy.
Straight as a curly fry.
Shaking my head, I stab the ignition button with my finger, and the engine roars to life. Pulling out onto the street, visions of suffocating between a pair of meaty thighs assault my brain.
Three
Smells Like Teen Spirit
